Bryce sometimes wondered how he would know if he’d died. There were times he’d seen stars, seen blackness, even perhaps a tunnel of light. It could have been a dream, he supposed, some middling consciousness bridging the pain of this world to whatever lay beyond. Everyone had a date with destiny, yet his seemed maddeningly vague—repeatedly taken to the brink, only to find his fate deferred. Only one thing kept him going: the thought of seeing Sarah and Alyssa again.
He cracked open his good eye, no idea how long he’d been out. Since the light was always on, he never knew the time of day. His best reference came from beyond the door. There were hours of chattering, periods of quiet. These became his sun, his moon, his shaky circadian reference. Right then, he heard nothing but the distant rhythm of snoring. Here—wherever here was—it was the middle of the night.
He lay still for a time, his standard procedure. He took careful stock before engaging muscles, before putting battered joints into gear. The smell was as ever, sweat and vomit, the squalid odor of his bucket across the room. He noted the coppery taste of blood in his mouth. One ear had a new pulsing sound, seemingly underwater. Bryce focused on his breathing. From what he could remember—a recollection that certainly had gaps—Mengele had gone after his existing injuries, focusing on his right-sided ribs as he whacked away with the pipe. The pain had been excruciating, and Bryce passed out at least once. He recalled saying something about a field communication network DARPA was building, the details of which might or might not have been true. He’d gotten a briefing last summer. Or was it the summer before? Such details were falling increasingly hazy, which could only be expected. From where he lay, the conference rooms of Capitol Hill seemed light-years away.
The good news, if it could be characterized as such, was that Mengele hadn’t inflicted any new damage. At least, none he’d so far registered. In the beginning, Bryce had sulked. Later, he’d felt sorry for himself, the torture of lost hope surpassing what they did to his body. Then he focused on what always brought him back—his wife and daughter. That put him across the bridge to anger.
And more good news. His tormentors had removed his leg shackles. He’d heard them discussing it after lifting him to a standing position for the third time—even in Russian dungeons, apparently, it was dishonorable to hit a man while he was down.
Ivan: He keeps falling down.
Mengele: He can’t stand without our help any more.
Ivan: We should remove the leg irons—he isn’t going anywhere.
Perfectly on cue, Bryce had crumpled like a pool toy with a pulled plug. A demonstration of hopelessness, even capitulation. As hoped, the key had come out and the steel clamps around his raw ankles were removed.
His anger began cresting. With new options of movement, he separated his legs and worked his way onto his knees. He hadn’t tried to stand in at least a week. Two “shift days.”
Using the wall for support, he clawed his way upward. Electric pain shot through his ribs. The very act of moving was awkward, dizzying. He reached his feet, swaying like a sailor with sea legs. Slowly things steadied. His ribs felt a bit better. He stood nearly straight, a climber who’d crested a mountain. Which, in a sorry sense, he was.
Distant traces of dinner rode the air, the sizzled-fat aroma of their standard fare—always meat and potatoes. At irregular intervals they slid cold portions into his cell on a dented metal tray—enough to keep him alive, but never enough to satisfy. No one ever removed his hood or tried to place the food in front of him. They simply knew he would find it, like a mole might find a grub. It wasn’t half bad, and he was certain he was getting leftovers from whatever the squad’s cook whipped up—no one was going to waste time preparing a special gruel for one inmate.
Bryce took a few tentative steps, his good arm guiding him along the wall. He wondered if the camera system was still out of action. One way to find out.
He reached up with his good left arm, his two uninjured fingers, and pulled the hood off his head. The light was intense, like he was staring at the sun. He blinked as his eyes adjusted, and for the first time Bryce got a comprehensive look at his surroundings. He’d caught snatches here and there through the gap in his hood, tried to piece it all together in a mental diagram. His model turned out to be reasonably accurate.
Twenty-feet by twenty, ten-foot ceiling. Walls that looked like something from a medieval castle, thick stone and windowless. The floor was solid concrete. The door belonged on a bank vault. No amount of chipping or digging or prying would ever get him out. His slop bucket was in one corner, a simple metal item with a wire handle. He looked up and found the camera above the door, a lens with a tiny LED light beneath. The light was extinguished.
“Let’s hope,” he whispered.
He took another step, and his right foot screamed in pain. Still, he could put a bit of weight on it—unlike the last time he’d tried. He worked his arms gingerly as he circled the cell, although the right barely moved—he was, in effect, a one-armed man. He stopped and performed something close to deep knee bends. His joints seemed rusted, but after a few repetitions things started to smooth out.
He kept moving and stretching, pushing through jolts of pain. After no more than ten minutes, he was exhausted. Slowly, tentatively, like a nonagenarian getting back in a wheelchair, Bryce sank to the floor. He picked up the hood, but didn’t put it on right away, taking a few more moments to analyze a room that defied analysis.
The exertion, along with his miniscule progress, buoyed his mood. Quelled his anger. It also stoked something he’d not felt for a very long time. It wasn’t exactly patriotism, but something more primal. Nothing born out of Boy Scout pledges or verses of “God Bless America.” He felt a kind of steel, something forged in the Army. The product of fallen comrades and spilled blood. It was a drive he hadn’t felt in a very long time, and Bryce suddenly didn’t feel alone. He felt a bond, as though he was fighting alongside others, unseen as they might be, on a critical mission that wasn’t yet over.
It had been hammered home during survival training that, in dire situations, one thing was vital above all else. Be it floating on a raft at sea, stranded in a jungle, or isolated on a frozen mountaintop, the one thing that set apart those who lived from those who died had been proved beyond a doubt: an unyielding will to survive.
And with that, Bryce was struck by a revelation. As utterly hopeless as his situation seemed, and in spite of his battered physical condition, his thoughts were advancing to the final portion of SERE training.
The second E.
Escape.